


Run

by superagentwolf



Series: Death is an Old Friend [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Has Issues, Episode: s04e06 Orphaned, I Tried, M/M, My First Smut, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Protective Derek, Stiles-centric, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 00:32:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2046234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superagentwolf/pseuds/superagentwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is blood everywhere. Stiles feels his hand sting and he tries not to die inside at the idea that he’s hurting someone (again).<br/>-<br/>While Scott is out with Garrett, Derek drops by the Police Station to talk to Stiles' dad. The Sheriff isn't there- but the Berserkers are. Chaos ensues and Stiles arrives. There are some realizations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run

There is blood on the floor and the metal hangs heavily in the air.

There is no pounding heartbeat for Stiles; it’s just another thing the demon took from him. In its place there is a placid calm, the coldness of realism and the knowledge that everything probably isn’t okay.

Still, there is pain. That’s the one thing the nogitsune left behind. Stiles has learned that the pain can be a good thing- it can sharpen the senses, focus the mind on something in a way Adderall can’t.

An alarm is blaring in the distance but Stiles ignores it. The police station is quite possibly one of the worst places in Beacon Hills for supernatural phenomena, along with the hospital and high school. The desks are destroyed ( _not me this time_ ) and there are shredded papers everywhere as Stiles picks his way through the wreckage. The sound of labored breathing gets louder.

Stiles thought his heart wasn’t beating but it gave a painful throb when he saw the figure on the floor.

There is blood on Derek’s face and it’s smeared in a grotesque streak from when he undoubtedly rolled over in an attempt to recover. Pain has engulfed his hazel eyes and he’s unseeing until he hears the footsteps approaching.

“St-,” Derek chokes on the name, blood spattered against the floor. Stiles can feel his mouth open but he can’t _think_ of what to say so there’s really no point as he rushes over to Derek.

“Derek,” Stiles manages, and it’s terrifying how scared he sounds. He doesn’t _feel_ the adrenaline so much but he can sense a pounding beat in his chest saying _can’t_ , _won’t_ , _save_. “Oh my- okay,” he tries to ground himself a little, pulling his mind back down from where it’s trying to escape the situation. _This same situation._

“Stiles,” Derek hisses through his teeth, clenched in pain and sharp, oh so sharp. Stiles’ pale fingers flutter nervously over the familiar cotton henley, gaping holes and ragged strips wet to the touch with blood. “Stiles, you have to get- go, they’re here, they were here-,”

“You’re not healing fast enough,” Stiles interrupts, mind racing as he tries to calculate just how _much_ slower Derek’s body is repairing itself. The vague idea that forms is frightening and Stiles moves quickly, the hesitation and worry abandoned in place of frantic determination. Mangled scraps of shirt fall apart in Stiles’ hands and he tosses them aside without a second glance, ripping his flannel shirt into strips as he assesses the wounds.

“Stiles,” Derek says again, and this time it’s insistent and panicked but slightly stronger. Every move seems painful but Stiles sets his mind to the task at hand, binding the gashes and holes in Derek’s abdomen with the fumbling knowledge he’s accumulated. Stiles knows he can’t do any harm but he won’t ever be as good as Melissa, either.

“You saying my name stopped working three monsters ago,” Stiles deadpans, and though he’s trying to make jokes ( _like I used to_ ) Derek doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, the man whimpers. _Whimpers._ The sound is animalistic and it manages to- despite his human status- give Stiles pause. It feels like something that Stiles would do with Liam, like- _oh. Oh._

For a moment Stiles feels shock overcome his worry, the idea he might be something like pack shaking him to his core. It’s not just pack, though. It’s _pack_. _Derek’s_ pack.

Stiles pushes his raging thoughts aside as he finishes binding Derek’s wounds, fingers quick. There’s blood seeping into the cloth but it’s not enough to worry Stiles. Yet.

“Come on, we have to go,” Stiles says, but when he looks down at Derek he sees pale skin and closed eyes, the lids bruise-shadowed. “Derek. _Derek_ ,” Stiles hears his own voice, the urgency, the thickness of panic beginning to infect the words. There’s a chorus of _no_ crowding all the space left in his head.

 _SLAP._ Stiles feels his hand sting and he tries not to die inside at the idea that he’s hurting someone ( _again_ ). Stiles doesn’t know what he’s saying, only hears the rambling words with their crazed inflections as background noise as he attempts to bring Derek back from the brink.

There’s a groan and Derek blinks and Stiles breathes in deeply, eyes still wild as he looks down at the werewolf ( _for now_ ). Stiles huffs out a disbelieving laugh because it _works_ , and one of these days all the hitting in the world won’t do anything but it’s _not today_.

Stiles hefts Derek upwards, and he feels the soreness in his own body but ignores it as he shifts his weight, ready to carry the older man as long and far as need be.

It’s a shock when Derek lifts most of his weight off Stiles.

“Healing,” Derek breathes, sounding insanely relieved. Stiles moves a little bit further away to look down at the bandages, recognizing that no more blood has stained them.

They’re standing there when the Berserker marches in.

Derek tenses a second before he gets ready to push Stiles to the ground ( _ever the self-sacrificing hero_ ). The moment never comes, though- the _thing_ before them turns, head tilted in a nightmarish imitation of a dog, and then stomps its way out. Stiles almost wants to laugh but he’s suddenly too focused on Derek, the way his breath fans out against Stiles’ neck and the way his arm is holding him close.

Stiles moves, ever so little, and the arm draped over his shoulders seems to move, adjusting itself in a grip that pulls him closer. Suddenly Derek isn’t propping himself up any more, he’s standing sure and tall and _holding_ Stiles.

“What…,” Stiles doesn’t finish, doesn’t know what it was he wanted to ask. What he thought he should ask. Derek’s eyes are stormy but it’s not anger that’s contained, it’s something else.

“I told you to run,” Derek says, like it explains everything, and it does. He’s searching Stiles’ face, not for an answer but for a confirmation ( _he knows_ ). The words are quiet, careful, and Stiles knows the weight they carry. The change.

“Since when do I run,” Stiles responds, and his voice breaks as the tears overflow.

Derek is pulling him, rough hands and soft lips discordant. Stiles feels fingers against the back of his neck and a hand at his hip as Derek pulls him forward, sitting on a relatively untouched desk. Stiles pushes as close as he can, tear tracks drying as he kisses Derek with all the desperation he feels. _I can’t. I can’t lose you._ The words are a heartbeat, pulsing thunderously as they move. Nothing matters but what is _here,_ _now_. Derek bites Stiles’ lip and there’s no telling where one moan stops and the other begins.

“We should go,” Derek says, and Stiles feels a detached sense of awe that he’s the reason Derek sounds destroyed, out of breath and needy. The suggestion is empty, though, a rehearsed line that is said purely out of a long-abandoned sense of decorum.

“ _No_ ,” Stiles gasps, and stars light up behind his eyes as he moves his weight on Derek’s lap, the sensation rolling through his bones. There’s a wrecked cry from Derek at the movement and suddenly Stiles is flipped over and onto the floor, the rush startling but not unwelcome. The floor is cold but Stiles doesn’t really care because _Derek is on top of him_.

Derek’s teeth scrape Stiles’ neck and Stiles arches, head thrown back to expose more, and he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing ( _display; showing the neck is a sign of trust_ ). Derek growls and Stiles feels the heat of an open mouth against his neck and the stars are back in his eyes. His fingers are moving of their own accord, stripping away the carefully tied bandages and yanking at Derek’s jeans. Nothing about what they’re doing is graceful but _fuck graceful_ because they could _die_ and _nothing else matters_.

“Stiles,” Derek says roughly, and Stiles realizes that at some point he’d been undressed. Just one look tells Stiles _this is really happening_ and it becomes apparent that while he _really_ wants Derek to fuck him, there is _no way_ it’s happening without something to make the experience at least somewhat comfortable.

Stiles blindly flings his hand towards his clothes where he _knows_ there’s an abandoned condom, the product of an unwillingness to be unprepared, and he is suddenly, immensely glad to have kept it there. Derek finds it first, though, and then Stiles’ hands are pinned above his head and Stiles doesn’t know that he’s ever had a kiss so _dirty_ before. There’s a wetness on Stiles’ stomach and his eyes wander momentarily as Derek’s attacking his neck again and-

“ _Jesus,_ ” Stiles breathes, because all he can see is glistening, sweat-beaded muscles and dark hair and _Derek’s dick_. His hand moves entirely on its own, grasping, and Derek’s throaty moan only encourages Stiles further. Stiles doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s doing because he can’t think of whatever porn he’s watched because this is _Derek_ and he is _naked_ and suspended above Stiles with taught muscles. Stiles feels Derek, warm in his hand, and he is getting flushed and sweaty just _touching_ him.

Derek snarls and Stiles should _not_ feel turned on at all but that’s the irony of it all, he always has and always will. There is a shift in weight and Stiles is manhandled into position, legs propped by Derek’s shoulders and he is _so damn hot_ that nothing is making any sense but the fact that he _needs_ Derek _in_ him, _now_. Every inch of his body is throbbing and he cries out when Derek suddenly bites at the inside of his leg, pale skin flowering like a rose.

“Please,” Stiles manages, and he knows he’s pleading and wrecked and flushed with needy wanting but Derek’s eyes only flash brighter as he moves. There's something cold and plastic  _snap_ that Stiles knows well and he doesn't stop to wonder where the bottle came from. The first push burns a little and Stiles hisses at the contact, forcing himself to relax, tilting his head back painfully against the hard floor. Derek knows exactly what to do, though, and suddenly Stiles is distracted by the hand moving against him, slow and torturous and _right_. They’re breathing heavily in the silence of the deserted station and Stiles flushes even more at the sound of his gaps echoing off the walls.

Derek moves slowly at first, cautious, and Stiles feels a spark of indignation in his chest. He doesn’t want to be slow, they’ve wasted enough time being slow, and he reaches out with spidery fingers to grip Derek’s hips. The touch goes unnoticed until Stiles pulls Derek further and they both cry out, Stiles arching up off the floor as he feels _full_ in a way he never imagined. Some disconnected, amused part of Stiles recognizes that Derek is literally _balls deep_ and he wants to laugh but it comes out too breathy, gasping.

“Derek, Derek-,” Stiles can’t say anything else, can’t manage anything but mindless babble because it feels _so good_ and if he’d known, _god_ , if he’d _known_ , he would have done this _so much sooner_. Derek has given up all pretense of moderation as he moves quickly, in and out, rough and deep, and then Stiles rolls his hips to get comfortable on the floor and he _feels it_.

His mindless scream is probably too loud but _fuck it feels good_ and part of his mind helpfully supplies the reason ( _prostate_ ) before rapidly descending into chaos. He doesn’t even have control over his body as he roughly pulls Derek down by his neck, grasping and desperate for something to ground him. Stiles kisses Derek with everything he has, hoping to convey the sheer amount of pleasure that’s overwhelming his senses. Derek moans as Stiles willingly opens his mouth, wanting to get as close to fucking Derek with his tongue as possible. Whatever he’s doing works, because Derek is making _so much fucking noise_ that Stiles starts to wonder, a little wild, if it’s just been a while or if Stiles is just a great kisser because Derek has _never_ been this vocal.

Derek pushes, and suddenly he’s thrust in deep again and Stiles can feel the balls hitting his ass and his prostate has just been hit and it’s all so much and then Derek’s hand is replacing Stiles’ and a wall of pleasure just _washes_ over him and carries him away. And Derek is calling Stiles’ name just as Stiles is crying out and it’s miraculous and _insane_ and the orgasm is like _nothing_ Stiles has ever felt before. Their cries are intermingled and Stiles feels his muscles spasm as the high washes over him, tense body releasing energy all in one glorious moment.

They seem to be there forever, and it’s the _best goddamn thing in the world_. It ends, though, and they’re both gasping for breath and Derek’s resting against Stiles, their chests sweaty where they’re touching. Stiles huffs out an incredulous laugh, the buzzing in his ears fading away as his body begin to register little aches and pains guaranteed to give him hell tomorrow.

“What,” Derek huffs, and it’s the same gruff tone as ever but now his dick is in Stiles and the thought is so _strange_ that Stiles laughs again, fingers boldly mapping out Derek’s stomach.

“Why haven’t we done that before?” Stiles asks, even though he fully knows the answer ( _Kate and Derek and me and Derek and life_ ). Derek stiffens for a moment but Stiles draws him back out, knowing how and not afraid any more, his mouth hot against Derek’s neck. Derek leans his head into the nook between Stiles’ neck and shoulder, inhaling deeply as if he wants to fill himself with Stiles’ scent- and _fuck_ if that thought doesn’t make Stiles twitch in interest.

“Because. Once we start we won’t stop,” Derek says, and his voice is almost like chocolate, rich and welcoming. Stiles shivers, arching his neck to look Derek in the eye.

“That doesn’t sound like a bad thing at all,” Stiles whispers, and Derek’s gaze softens, resting on the bruises littering Stiles’ collarbone. He looks at them like they’re precious, proof of something more.

“No. Not a bad thing at all.”

**Author's Note:**

> I can't even explain. I just had the idea to do something where Derek is hanging in the balance like the scene from 3A where Stiles is trying to slap him awake. I feel like moments like that can go several ways and I felt like they needed this. Hopefully I don't suck terribly at smut. I've never tried because I didn't think it would be good. Hopefully I don't get chased off the site with cyber pitchforks.  
> Also, I may or may not make this part of a series.


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